


Of Blood and Bleeding, Time and Forever.

by abbichicken (orphan_account)



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Character Study, Knives, M/M, Mutilation, Secret Relationship, Self-Harm, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, going somewhere eventually, passing the time forever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 08:55:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3482147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/abbichicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Balem and Titus play dark and secret games to pass infinity, together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Game, in Principle

"A little... vitality wouldn't kill you, brother..."

"Nor a little humility, you," Balem replies, dry, giving nothing.

Titus rolls his head around, flexes his chest forwards and sighs as if exhaling the weight of time and space. His smile is nauseating, Balem thinks.

Titus is an option, to Balem. A reminder of what foolishness and irresponsibility looks like, of skiving and assumption. He is what Balem might have become - could still yet be, enough dips in the pool of life, enough late starts, blind eyes turned and details skipped. Centuries ago a pretty face and solid pectoral development might a man make, but an Abrasax should strive for more than that. Or, this Abrasax should, at least.

Titus is the contrast by which Balem knows himself.

Words exchanged mean nothing. Time has wrought a relationship so deep that the petty squabbles they verbalise are merely stalling, playing at family, pretending to care for things that are nothing to Balem's daily work, are diversions from paperwork, scouring and contemplation, the effort of acquisition and harvest. The diversion is tiresome, the small talk repetitive, but the depth that lies behind it, it makes it all worthwhile.

Eternity is hard. Creates...discontent. Needs. Frustration. It's different for each of them. Titus is tiresomely, exhaustively sexual. He has fads and desires, illogical wishes he and Kalique set straight between them. Kalique holds forth with anyone and everyone on anything that takes her mind, devouring and consuming with the best of them, insatiable and curious for it all, grateful for the time to explore and to be. And Balem, at rest and at leisure, breaks out his waves of discontent upon the smooth, considered, perfect body of his brother. Hours, days of torment, and they can be erased so beautifully in but a moment.

It is their best secret.

It is their only secret.

Secrets hold little interest over millennia; the behaviour of the many, the limited, the fuel to their forever. But just one, just this one, this holds beautifully perverse pleasure to a man whose existence depends upon absolutes, upon poise and presence and power.

They don't speak of it. No need, not after so long. The content varies; the goal is the same. Titus, in squalling agony, deconstructed and bloody, composure dissolved in humiliation and torment.

It is part of what makes Titus so gallingly smug; so calm and superior at all other times. The activity itself, and the need for it, is all that keeps Balem from taking his pleasures too far. But the temptation, especially at this early stage of the game, where the 'Shall we?' eyes of his brother seem to mock, and Balem's inability to hide his want to exhibit practised bloodlust inevitably results in the warped twisting of his lips, the darkening of his eyes, the growl of primal want escaping low from his throat.

There are knives. Beautiful and ornate, engraved, silvers and gold, ridiculous, decorative knives that struggle with butter. Ancient knives, stone blades, flints, first metals, beaten and hewn with increasing skill. Scalpels: medical wares through time and space. Made for neatness and purpose, for art, it seems, sometimes.

Balem has many museums. This, shelf upon shelf upon cabinet and tray, purpose built, velvet-lined, testimony to man's need to spill or see the blood of others, is the only one he visits. The only one with personal purpose. The others are for show, for the external, for the basic point of it: this is what I had, this is what I won, this is what I bought and what I took. This museum: this is who I am.

It does not need to be shared.

His brother does not count.

To the others, to the servants, it is no different from everything else. It is his, and must be kept shining and glorious, because who knows what it’s for, what it means, what it might become? They will never know, and that sometimes, sometimes, is important.

This time, it’s important.

Titus assumes a position easily. He knows the game, plays it well. As a child, he would never acquiesce to any such games. Not even such – to any games at all. Even at stones, he would pout and sulk. But when Balem realised his powers over his brother, from their younger years, would subdue and assault him, and Titus would…if not allow, then at least permit, for, for Balem, there was a difference, then, something new began to develop.

It began in, looking back, a kind of innocence. A role play. One over the other, assuming their own hierarchy in a world in which they headed, to their minds, everything and everyone. They made their own situations, their own causes, their own levels of dominance between each other. They were so small, and still fighting to be masters of their universe.

It didn’t take long for the fight to become something new. Something different. A play, a game, a balance.

Of course, back then, there was no magical pool of regeneration. They were young, they healed fast. They. Titus, mostly, even then, but then only him. Titus realised that resistance was…less fun, less part of the game. They made their own roles in silence, in habit, in time.

It’s been a long, long time.

This time is one of many thousands of extensions of the time before. And every time, every time, Titus revels in being so functional, in being part of this hierarchy. What does he get from it? It’s the kind of question Balem asks him, as he writhes and bleeds, erect and blushing, ashamed and soiled even in the midst of his own tears and pain. It’s the kind of thing he faces time and again because life is never so raw and honest as this. What does he get?

His brother, there, focused only on him. It is the only time there is any use, in his brother’s eyes, for his own existence.

And it matters to him, and it arouses him, it makes him feel like nothing else in universe could – and he should know, for he has tried those things that he can find, amidst that vast expanse.

Titus finds himself once more in the gallery, long and unforgiving, unbuttoning his tunic under the cold gaze of his brother’s eyes, watching, waiting, unmoved but insistent, ready to work upon the next chapter of the grotesque tapestry of their secret entwined existence.

 

 

 

 


	2. First Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dance continues.

 

No words, no words.

_Shall I?_

_Or..._

No if, and, or but. Just the command, the game, the state of being. It's time to play. Shots were called between them, each knows their place.

 _Strip_.

Titus does.

Even in its futility, he does it as if he were aiming to please, to turn on, to tantalise. It is part of his role in this; has been such for a long, long time.

Balem couldn't be less sexually excited if his brother were clearing a table of crockery, rather than revealing his carefully-shaped self.

Titus continues the show behind his brother's back, shedding layers of the finest fabric at a pace which serves only to tease himself. He sinks to cushions, strewn in mock uncare along the wall across the carpets, which lie, hazardous, Tudor-style, one on another, too much finery for the space they inhabit. Excess: the most fitting decor for any exhibition.

Balem takes to looking along the opposite wall, strolling along the gallery, gazing at the options, his weapons of choice and preference. All have been used, at one time or another, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love the choice.

These days, he starts from scratch every time. The Titus laid out behind him is clean, neat, new. His body is sleek and young. When it was truly that age, it was scarred, blistered, chastened and red in places Balem chose, striped and raw, aged and flawed, healing in places and festering in others. It was more beautiful, Balem felt, but with less potential, all possible actions limited by decisions already made.

He can recreate that if he likes,though, _do you remember when_ , or he can start something else, _this is where we are, this is who you are, this is who you will be from hereonin_ and then again, it could change, it could be different, there might yet be new chapters. This isn’t ritual. Balem isn’t the fan of ritual people might assume. You have to leave space for cunning, for change, for human spirit. To do the same thing, over, and over, to continually receive the same reward, that wouldn’t suit a man with his intelligence, his skills.

There are things they've yet to explore, he and Titus.

Pains, glory, torments.

Titus doesn't have the imagination.

At least when the two of them are together, he doesn't need it.

Titus stretches out, waiting, languid, liquid, pale-tan flesh rolling over muscles exercised in pleasure alone. It's warm in this room, a little too warm, and there's a fine slick of sweat, fuelled by anticipation, breaking over his body as Balem, reptilian-cool, ignores the poses and the flexing, choosing, pondering, wondering, deciding, his movements agonisingly slow.

Slow, today, because today there is time. Kalique is elsewhere, negotiating her own method of passing the nights. The work for the day is done, and tomorrow, tomorrow is a holiday in parts of the galaxy with which their friends in high places interact, the manufactured point in the calendar that leads to kinds of excess far easier than that in which they're about to engage, provides excuses for creatures who will not live long enough to learn to truly indulge the truths of themselves without provocation. Nobody will be awake in time to disturb their late night, or early morning. There is, for once, no need to rest tonight, no preconceived end dictated, as so much of Balem's life is, by work.

"We haven't all day," Titus says, already teased by the rhythmic pacing in front of cases, the reaching for and replacing of one instrument with another, but he is speaking for nothing, for the point of it, if not embarrassed by the way his own hands can't help but encourage sensation, at least unable to do it in silence. Balem ignores him, because it is far, far too early in the plot of the night to waste breath. They will both be short of it enough, soon enough.

Titus makes play of running the show from time to time, will attempt to emphasise his own part in the play, dictate his brother's actions and indicate what would best arouse him, which area of his body might be attended to next, and at the least to tease words of any kind from Balem's lips, for his brother is never so vicious, so cutting or so honest as he seems in these times. But what can be teased from Balem’s mouth is never half so fulfilling as what's written in his eyes.

Balem toys with a blade that shines blue when it tilts into the flickers of low light from the lamps set along the room. He weighs it in his palm, weight of the handle perfectly balanced with that of the blade, runs a finger down its form, not cold, utterly smooth. Raising it to his lips, he extends his tongue and licks at the edge of it, soft, wet, curious.

It cuts, painless, obedient, an easy touch, and first blood goes to him, and him alone.

The taste is exquisite. Of course: it is his own, it could be no less. Balem's smile betrays the flutters of excitement and readiness for what's to come.

He turns, and embraces the sight of his brother at last.

Time, time, it is time for his joy to begin. Balem's smile reveals bloodied teeth, and the knife glints with the readiness that ripples through the thick atmosphere surrounding them. Titus looks up at it, and, as there so ever is, the smallest lack of trust shines through his willingness to play.

Balem always looks for that, loves that, needs that. It is important that this frightens Titus, somewhere inside. It will be important later that he himself feels that point of fear. The only thing that can kill, at their age, is complacency. And it is vital they practice the avoidance of that.

This phase of their dance of the ebb and flow of tides of frustration, need and, in its own turn, lust, for blood, attention, sensation or display, commences. Balem discards his top, advances, shirtless, sees disparaging thoughts in his brother’s eyes about his appearance, _too soft, too desk job, remember when we used to wrestle for your shape, at least, that’s what you you said it was for_ and rebukes them with, knife in the other hand, a solidly directed punch that connects spryly with Titus’ jaw.

It sends Titus back into the cushions, does little more than split his lip, but catches him out roundly, and for this, Balem is amused.

Titus only wishes his brother might kiss him, all the better to share the taste of the blood that lines both their mouths, but wishing has never got him anywhere with Balem.

No kiss is forthcoming, of course it isn’t, of course not, so Titus groans, instead, and repositions himself, shakes the surprise from his eyes, and asks, “Next?”


	3. The Path Here Was Long and Full of Wrong Turns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pondering and backstory, shaping and wondering. A little blood, little progress.

Balem is as familiar with his brother's body as he is his own; more so, perhaps, as he has no such level of aesthetic narcissism; wears himself in the way that provides the most authority, most transparency, conveys something of his excellence and wisdom at first glance.

It's true that as a youth he prized a fashionable look, cultivated a lean and ambitious figure, fought with Titus for sport, because brothers, because Titus had to be good for something, and from time to time he fought others for prestige, glory, the show of it. It was a phase, the prowess of which remains in his hold, his grapple, his ability to pin, his eye for a weak spot. It remains in the thrill he feels at the point of absolute submission to him - the win, be it on points, logistics, finance or blackout, it's all the same. The wins are what count. It's rare that he needs to fight for them, now. Mostly, he collects what he requires, with armies, money, or paperwork, all of which he excels at. Add that to the list of reasons that twirling the knife between his long fingers, eyeing up his brother’s naked body, seems like a good idea. This is the kind of win he has to work for. Comes naturally, but takes effort.

He doesn’t miss the times when he didn’t know everything he knows now, tried to impress with his body, with his arrogance, with all kinds of tricks, before he grew into the routine of cold dominance that gives him so close to everything he needs.

Titus misses being young with an ache that only increases over time. The innocence, the easy sense of purpose and point of being, purely to consume and enjoy and wonder and delight in the finest, and the crudest of the pleasures of being human. He has not grown wiser, has not accomplished more, has survived, it’s true, but everything that he prized most in himself diminishes, year on year.

He looks at his brother as the best of cases for growing so old. Balem was made to last forever, is as essential to existence as the air they breathe, the regenerative technology they've nurtured, the worlds they conquer. For one so apparently heartless, he is the relentless beat of their continuous existence. He might not take the care of his body he could, something alien and lost in peculiarity to Titus, a side issue that simply grates and irritates (this moment, body arched over his own, would, if Balem presented himself as he had been, would have been so much more beautiful than it currently is, for Titus sees only missed opportunity in untackled flaws), but he is undeniably, essentially ambitious, cold and driven in a way that Titus has never been. Any attempt Titus ever made to behave thus has looked petulant, derivative, and childish, next to his brother’s cool authority.

The level of galling admiration Titus has for his brother has only grown over the years they spend together. Does it come across? It must do, not least because he participates so fully and completely in this. It’s why he tries to emphasise his own perversity, sexual thrills and a sense of disregard for his own personal safety. Those things exist, but Titus is not one to explore such feelings. No, further than that, it is the language he holds most dear to being an Abrasax, the sense that they have something between them, something else, something special, something that justifies the intense and repetitive indulgence of forever amidst the stars.

The height of everything between them now is reduced, for Titus, to these sparks – here, this, this flicker in Balem’s gaze, laser-intent, scattering and scanning over Titus’ body, choosing where to cut, where to start, what to draw, what mood to take. Titus has no anticipation for the blade itself. It is irrelevant, for now, at least. Repetition takes away a lot of pain, and a lot of fear. This is why the game grows ever harder to play, but it says a lot that they’re both still so keen to continue it.

The knife cuts so easily, it would be maddening if it weren’t by design. It parts flesh in the smoothest of ways, particularly when applied with the light and skilful touch of the artist Balem believes himself to be.

Titus exhales, it can’t be pain, this can’t hurt, it’s probably the thought of what’s happening that’s doing it, Balem thinks, probably the way the blood swells immediately at the run of the blade and streaks down the pale flesh in a bold, unforgiving stripe. It drips, weightily, and the drop disappears easily into the vibrant reds of the carpet beneath. A second follows.

The cuts take shape, a branch that starts at the pectoral, traverses the ribcage and curves back, down, around to the hip. Shallow but decisive motions, a sense of beauty to them, rather than butchery - also an option. Balem bites at his lip in concentration, forgets to breathe whilst he works, feels faintness and a sense of time slowing before he remembers to inhale.

"Long day?" Titus asks, with a heavy breath that expands and contracts his cuts, causing clotting to fail and a fresh surge of red to mark new patterns down his side. Balem purses his lips in a pretty little rage that says, _must you?_ but Titus doesn't get knives, just the opportunity to play up his ridiculously accommodating position, and so that half of the game begins now.

Occasionally, Balem has tried binding his brother's mouth, with cord or silk or violence and strong words, but something changes, shifts and soils the occasion. Irritated as he claims to be, even, as he feels he is, when his brother is so very Titusish during these times, it is the way his stomach clenches, and something that crosses a divide between shame and arrogance is kindled in his gut.

Titus says, “Have you started yet?” and twists onto the uncut side, hiding the damage and bloodspill beneath him, running a hand over his side, tacky-warm, taut, waiting.

“No,” Balem replies, and he lifts the blade to his lips, parts them, extends his tongue, and licks the blade clean. “See?”

“Remember when you thought the secret to eternal life was in drinking your own blood? “

Balem doesn’t dignify that with an answer. It had seemed logical at the time. But, it turned out, it was just another fashion, one tried by plenty of worlds across the ages, and now, now, it seems so primitive to think he’d ever believed it would provide a solution to the issues of time. He and Kalique sampled all kinds of things in the search for something that would reverse, erase, or at least delay the ageing process before they came to RegenX-E. All kinds of things.

Those were other days.

Balem looks at the print of his knuckles, dark on Titus’ face, and debates adding to it. He feels clumsy this evening, like he’s dropping the ball, like his edge is a little worn.

He takes a few paces away, his every movement watched by his prey, and extinguishes lights around the side of the gallery until only the underlights in the cabinets illuminate the room, leaving Titus in the shadows, and the weaponry of ages all that’s clear to be seen.


End file.
